


The magical river of goo

by Oreal770



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Arthur Knows About Merlin's Magic (Merlin), Cheese, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Merlin doesn't know he knows, another day another crisis, so fluffy it's gooey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-17 01:36:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29342193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oreal770/pseuds/Oreal770
Summary: Another day, another crisis. But when the strange pulsating creature in the forest consumes Merlin's magic, he needs Arthur's help to get it back.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 110





	The magical river of goo

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FallenStar22](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FallenStar22/gifts).



#  The Magical River of Goo 

#  for FallenStar22 

The report arrived before dawn. Because of course it did. Important, life-or-death messages never arrive after breakfast.

Merlin watched Arthur’s expression fall as he read it. The King sat at his desk, in the corner of his bedroom, blond hair scattered across his forehead, eyes more shadowed than they had been when Merlin first met him. The years of kinghood, few though they’d been so far, weighed on him.

“Well?” Merlin said, forcing a bright smile onto his face. “What is it? Some foreign king’s announced his visit; another courtier’s turned into a gremlin? Ooh, is it the undead? It’s always exciting when it’s the undead.”

It worked. Arthur’s head sunk into his hands, and Merlin saw the flicker of a smile tug at his lips.

“You’re an idiot,” Arthur said, looking up now, some of that weight gone from his shoulders. “No, it’s not the undead. There have been…reports…”

“Ooh, reports.” Merlin drew the word out, and Arthur threw his empty goblet at him—empty because the kitchens were only just stirring because it was so insanely early. Merlin’s stomach rumbled, and he wished not for the first time that he could conjure up a quick snack. Maybe some sausages. A single apple. 

Arthur’s sigh drew Merlin back into the room. The king sat back in his chair, message hanging loosely from one hand. His blue eyes shone across the room and made Merlin shiver. “Merlin,” he said, the hint of a smile belying his exasperation. “Do you want to know about today’s crisis, or not?”

“Can I go back to bed if I don’t know about it?”

Another goblet. Why did Arthur have so many goblets? Merlin didn’t bother to dodge, watching the goblet as it soared past him—almost as if Arthur was trying not to hit him. How considerate. Merlin smirked, tucking his hands behind his back.

“There’s a strange creature in the woods,” Arthur said. “Apparently it’s pulsating, and glowing.”

Merlin pulled a face. “Yep. Definitely going back to bed.”

“No, you’re not.” Arthur heaved up from his chair. “You’re going to ready our horses.”

Merlin hesitated. “Just our horses?” 

Arthur shrugged. “What’s one pulsating creature against the King of Camelot? I’ve dealt with worse. Besides, I’ll have you to scream at it.”

Merlin quirked an eyebrow. “Gwaine will be furious if we leave him behind.”

Arthur sauntered over, his bright eyes fixed on Merlin, his swagger making Merlin both decidedly uncomfortable, and extremely happy. “Gwaine can have the next crisis. I’m sure he and Percival will enjoy it immensely. Now, the horses?”

Merlin mocked into a bow. “Yes, sire.”

Arthur winked—he’d been doing that more recently, and it always served to made Merlin flush as red as his neckerchief. Maybe that was why Arthur did it. Merlin turned on his heel to hide his blush, surrendered any thought of a castle-based breakfast, and heaved his way to the stables.

# ~~~~~~~~~~

The smell of pine suffused through the trees. Sunlight filtered through the canopy, scattering light across the forest floor, and though the vague image of a strange, pulsating creature lived in Merlin’s thoughts, he felt himself calm. He’d ridden through these woods with Arthur at his side so many times, but it had been a while since it was just the two of them. Merlin loved the other knights—Gwaine’s jokes, Percival’s easy smiles, Leon’s laugh, and Elyan’s dry humour; not to mention Lancelot’s dramatic eyerolls. Travelling with them was always an adventure, but it was pleasant to ride through the woods without their noise.

Not that it was quiet. Birdsong littered the air, and the scurry of small animals was interspersed with the sound of their horses’ footsteps. And, as if he could hear Merlin’s thoughts, Arthur threw a look over his shoulder—sunlight gleamed on his blond hair (because of course it did)—and he rolled his eyes.

“Really, Merlin? You’re looking at the flowers?” he asked, drawing out the words into long syllables. “You’re such a girl’s blouse.”

“Really, Arthur,” Merlin answered, mimicking the King’s drawl. “One of us has to pay attention to our surroundings. I know you enjoy being knocked unconscious, but—”

“You make that into a bigger thing than it is.”

“Fifty-two,” Merlin answered.

Arthur blinked, confusion furrowing his brow. Merlin let the number float for a moment.

“Fifty-two times, I’ve found you knocked out by bandits; potions; stray doorframes…”

“I told you, the door jumped out at me!

Merlin just smirked, a bubble of joy billowing in his chest as he settled his eyes back onto their surroundings. Of course, the King was right. The door had jumped out at him, because Merlin had made it do so. 

He should maybe cut down on the knocking-out thing. 

It was so convenient, though.

Arthur gave up, turning back in his saddle and leaning over the neck of his horse, pushing the animal faster. 

The trip continued to be somewhat uneventful. No bandits poked their heads through the trees. No strange animals fell from the sky; no magic infused the air. The tension in Merlin’s chest tightened. He scanned the trees again, as their destination grew closer. So far, no sign of the glowing, pulsating creature had reached them.   
Maybe they wouldn’t find it.

Maybe—

Merlin frowned. His magic bubbled beneath his skin, spreading across his senses so his fingers felt warm. The birds had stopped singing. The scurry of animals in the undergrowth had disappeared; even his horse seemed to breathe laboriously.

Merlin leaned over in his saddle, pressing a hand to the poor thing’s neck. Its breathing was worse than he’d thought. It heaved, gasped; he felt its heartrate kick higher and higher under his hand. 

But its pace didn’t slow. It didn’t stumble.

“Arthur,” Merlin called.

“She won’t stop,” Arthur answered. He leaned over his own horse, drawing his sword. His red cape fluttered in the breeze, flowing very kinglike.

Merlin whispered a spell into his horse’s ear.

The horse didn’t calm, like he expected it to. Instead, it kicked into a canter, surging forward with a great leap. Merlin yelled, clinging to the reins.

“Mer—”

Arthur’s voice vanished behind, as Merlin careered through the trees. Magic thrummed through him. He didn’t dare speak another spell. Thoughts scattered in his mind. Should he jump? 

No. He couldn’t leave the poor animal to face whatever—

They leapt a fallen trunk.

A bright gleam filled Merlin’s vision, and the horse reared high, taking Merlin’s decision regarding dismounting from him; Merlin tumbled backwards, hitting the ground with a wet thump.

Because the ground was wet, though there hadn’t been any rain in recent days. Merlin groaned as coolness seeped into his tunic, sending a chill down his spine.  
The horse continued walking, slower now, marching right into—

“No!”

—the pulsating, white light.

Merlin scrambled upwards as the light brightened to blinding, as his horse disappeared into the vibrancy of it. He shouted a spell, hoping there was some solidity inside the mass that he might hit.

His spell hit something, definitely. He felt the connection between his magic and the spell pull tight, as the bright light twisted and morphed into the shape of a face. Merlin’s own face, blown a thousand times larger, and wearing a smile which made Merlin’s skin crawl.

He yelled.

The line which lived between him and the creature, the spell he’d cast—just a power spell, it should have pushed the thing away and dissipated—growing more and more powerful.

It built, and Merlin swore, trying to cancel it, not knowing how. It pulled at him, though he couldn’t move, and the light spread brighter and further.

“Merlin!”

A distant call echoed through the woods behind, but Merlin couldn’t answer it. The tug on his magic had become a chain; he felt the spell build, grow, expand, and he felt himself grow smaller within it.

A laugh echoed inside his skull, a laugh which was everywhere and nowhere, and which sounded just like his own, but wrong. So wrong.

His fingers were on fire. His entire body burned as the chain on his magic grew thicker and bolder and tighter, and the white, pulsating light grew brighter, and bigger, until Merlin couldn’t see anything but white, right across his vision. Tears fled down his cheeks, and he couldn’t blink them away.

Then, all at once, he was cold.

Cold, and empty, and the thing before him towered over the trees and laughed with Merlin’s own voice, and an awful, expansive whisper sounded inside Merlin’s head.

“Thank you.”

Shivering, and empty, Merlin slumped to the ground, back into the wetness he could now see wasn’t water. It was yellow, and slick, and he tried to shove away from it, but he found he had no energy in his limbs.

He gasped, and his breath came as a rasp, and a horse careered into the clearing, Merlin’s King on its back, and a look of deep alarm crossed Arthur’s features as he leapt to the floor, his hands reaching for Merlin.

The man Merlin was supposed to protect. The man Merlin’s destiny was supposed to be forever tied to.

Not anymore.

Because when Merlin reached into that part of him which had always boiled and breathed, there was nothing but cold and emptiness.

This wasn’t weakness. This wasn’t tiredness. This was wrong.

He had no magic.

# ~~~~~~~~~~~

After the blinding light of the strange creature, the woods seemed impossibly dark, though it was still midday. Merlin shivered, his clothes sticking to his skin, a hollow emptiness filling him up. Arthur clung to him, a feeling Merlin might have appreciated once, but now he barely felt the touch. He felt distant, like the world had taken a step away.

“Come on, you lump,” Arthur groaned through his teeth. “Work with me, Merlin.”

Merlin tried to speak. A hiss of air pushed through his throat into a high-pitched whine.

“Oh, don’t be so pathetic,” Arthur said, though a new wobble infused his words. “Come on, get on the horse.”

Merlin’s limbs flopped. Arthur dragged him towards the animal, which seemed to be behaving as normal now the creature—Merlin flinched—was gone. It waited for Arthur to approach, but as soon as Merlin touched the animal, it reared, snorting and backing away.

“What?” Arthur said. “Don’t be ridiculous, it’s only Merlin. Stand still.”

But the horse wouldn’t let Merlin near it. Merlin watched as if through a veil, panic rising beneath the dull hollow inside him. Animals had always liked him. Was he broken?

What about his other powers? He longed to call for the dragon, to speak in that language which once flowed from his tongue, but when he tried to think of the words, they slipped from his mind.

He’d lost that, too. The gift his father left for him, he’d lost it.

He’d lost everything.

Arthur’s grip on him faltered, and Merlin slid to the floor, barely feeling the smack of his knees against the stone. Arthur swore, grabbing his shoulders.

“What did it do to you?” he said, and now there was fear in his blue eyes. Now there was a note of panic in his grip. “We need to get you to Gaius.”

Gaius. Merlin tried to speak once more, and once more the sound came out as a high whimper. Would Gaius know what to do? How to bring back his power?

Kilgarrah might know, but Merlin had no idea how to summon him now; the druids—maybe they had answers. Maybe, if they realised Merlin was weakened, they would know Camelot was vulnerable. Morgana was out there somewhere, if she found out the King was vulnerable…

“Merlin!” Arthur’s face swum before him, fading in and out. A blow struck Merlin’s cheek, knocking some clarity into his swimming thoughts.

The Lake. The lady of the lake would know. Nimueh was furiously powerful, older than time. He had to get to Avalon. He had no strength now, but maybe he just needed to rest. Rest… the thought sunk into his bones, and he caught himself nodding. If Arthur took him back to the castle, he’d have no way of getting back here, close to the lake’s shores. 

He forced the words from his throat. “Drained,” he rasped. “Sleep. Just… sleep.”

Arthur’s hand tangled in Merlin’s hair. “You’re okay,” he said. “You’re going to be okay.”

He heaved Merlin upright again, hooking his arm around Merlin’s back and pressing the freezing tunic closer to his skin. Merlin shivered, and Arthur ground his teeth, shooting a quick glare at the horse.

“I’ve got you,” he told Merlin. “You’ll get your rest, if I have to fight the whole forest for it. You hear me? It’s okay. You focus on healing.”

A modicum of calm settled Merlin’s panic. Maybe Arthur was right. Maybe he did just need to rest, and in a few hours, he’d have the strength to find out what happened to him. His magic might even come back to him. He managed to lift his head and offer Arthur a weak smile.

Arthur’s determined jaw only tightened.

He laid Merlin down surprisingly gently. “You focus on healing,” he said, pointedly. “I’m going to collect some firewood. I’ll be away for a few minutes. You heal.”  
Merlin blinked at him, unsure why he was emphasising so many words. Arthur smiled, gave him two thumbs up, and disappeared into the wood.

Merlin’s head fell back. The moss cushioned his head, and the shock which had dulled everything shifted aside; the growing panic which he’d barely felt shoved to the front. His heartbeat echoed in his skull. He felt sick, and struggled onto his elbows, heaving nothing into the ground. He shivered, and it was worse than fever, his body shaking violently as if his lack of magic were a poison.

Maybe it was. Maybe his body didn’t know how to function without the liquid power in his veins. Maybe he was dying.

His fingers clawed into the moss, a high whimper burst through his lips. Freezing tears burned his cheeks, and he missed his next breath. 

His thoughts scattered, his terror deepened, and maybe he was dying, right here and now, alone in the woods, freezing and covered in strange yellow goo. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t sit up. He could only heave, and gasp, and—

“Merlin!”

He wasn’t alone. Arthur skidded to his knees in front of him, desperation spreading across his features as he cradled Merlin’s face. “Merlin, breathe,” he begged. “Breathe. Please.”

Merlin didn’t know how to say he couldn’t. He didn’t know how to say all the things living inside him. The apologies and guilt, for the lies, and for the power he’d lost which Arthur didn’t even know he had. 

“Look at me,” Arthur said, his eyes so wide, so blue Merlin could fall inside them.

If this would be his last vision, Merlin would take it. He stared into the eyes, allowing himself to truly look for the first time, to stare without flinching or fear, because it didn’t matter what Arthur saw in his own eyes now, not when this was the end.

“Okay,” Arthur was saying. His hands brushed over Merlin’s arms. “You’re okay.”

And Merlin’s breathing was… calming. Not gasping, not stopping. He wasn’t dying. Not dying. He felt the moss in his fingernails, felt Arthur’s hands on his arms. He felt Arthur’s breath on his face, and his gasps dissolved into sobs.

“You idiot, Merlin,” Arthur breathed, yanking him into a hug. “You scare me like that again, and I’ll kill you.”

Merlin laughed through his sobs, leaning on Arthur, clinging to the cool strength of his armour, breathing in the faint smell of sweat.

“Do you want me to go collect more wood?” Arthur murmured. “Would it be helpful?”

Merlin squinted at the space around them, at the copious amount of wood in their area. “Why…?” His voice shivered, a weak whisper. “There’s wood here.”

“Water, then?” Arthur said. “I can go collect water? If you need to be alone. To heal.”

Merlin blinked slow, as Arthur set him down, still holding his arms. His confusion must have shown on his face, because a flicker of irritation answered him on Arthur’s features.

“For God’s sake, Merlin,” he said. “You can be so dense. Look, I can look the other way. Pretend I’m busy. I could fall asleep. Or do you need a plant of some kind? I won’t pretend to know how it works…?”

“How… how what works?”

Arthur growled, deep in his throat. “Magic, you idiot! Look, I’ll get you whatever you need; I won’t ask any questions. I’ll pretend I don’t know, and you can pretend I don’t know, just like we’ve been doing for years.”

Magic.

Merlin shrunk back. The panic which had ebbed away came back, full-force. His breathing kicked high, and Arthur shook him.

“Calm down. Just tell me what to do.”

“You…” Merlin struggled, forcing the words out. “You know?”

Arthur’s jaw dropped. He rocked back on his heels, and Merlin watched his expression change from fear to outright astonishment.

“Merlin,” he said, in that slow drawl of his. “How stupid, how blind, and idiotic, and stupid do you think I am?”

Merlin didn’t have an answer for that. 

“When—how long?”

Arthur burst out laughing. His face opened up, his teeth shone, and even the dark hollows under his eyes seemed to brighten. He laughed with his entire body, infectious guffaws which cut through Merlin’s astonishment, until he was smiling too. Until he was beaming, and laughing, because he’d been so worried, for so long, and Arthur had thought they were both pretending he didn’t know.

Gaius might kill him, but Merlin didn’t care.

“You don’t hate me.”

“Fuck that.” Arthur grabbed him again, lowering him to the moss. “You’re an idiot. An absolute idiot. Of course I don’t fucking hate you. After everything we’ve done for each other? Forget that.”

Awe. Merlin stared up at Arthur’s face, at the delight filling his eyes, and he forgot, just for a moment, to hide everything he was. To hide the years of secrets. What he was, what he could do, and what he felt.

He loved this man.

His hand rose, pressed to Arthur’s cheek. Arthur’s smile dimmed, shifted, became something else, something dark and wanting, and Merlin felt it shoot through him, fill up the emptiness which—

“What?”

Merlin’s hand dropped. Concern filled Arthur’s eyes.

“It’s gone,” Merlin whispered. “The thing, whatever it is, it took it.” He looked up into Arthur’s, into the King’s face. “It took my magic.”

Saying it out loud made it real. Merlin felt the words tear through him, wrench him open, and he shuddered, pressing a hand to his mouth, and then he broke.

Arthur grabbed him, gripped him, held him as he sobbed. Soft words floated over them, as Arthur clung to him and rocked, an endless litany of it’ll be okay, it’s okay, you’re okay.

Exhaustion swept on the heels of the tears, and Merlin sank into blessed unconsciousness, floating into forgetting.

# ~~~~~~~~~~~~

He woke slowly, registering warmth first. He was cocooned, surrounded by comfort, with heat on his face, spreading through him. He felt tired, but comfortable, a lazy sort of tired where the morning stretches endlessly ahead, full of the possibility of lying here forever. Merlin floated towards consciousness, taking in the sensations as they arose; light flickering in front of his eyes, soft ground beneath him, warm arms around him, warm breath on his neck. 

That wasn’t normal.

The thought registered, and took a moment to spread. Alarm hadn’t quite reached him as he opened his eyes, looking out at the flickering campfire, keeping the darkness of the nighttime forest at bay. The buzz of distant insects filled Merlin’s ears, accompanying the soft breaths which came from behind him. Before the fire, his shirt hung, a clean, faded blue. His trousers hung beside them, clean.

Merlin was not wearing his clothes.

The alarm reached him, and he jerked upright, dislodging the arms which clung to him, and astonishment slammed into him as he looked back over his shoulder and saw King Arthur’s eyes blink open, his lips part into a lazy smile, and a hand come up to brush his blond hair from his forehead.

“Morning,” he said, in that slow, lazy way of his.

He wasn’t wearing a shirt. Why wasn’t he wearing a shirt?

“You were shivering like your death was upon you,” Arthur said, and Merlin realised he’d spoken aloud. “Your clothes were freezing, and covered in this goo, so I washed them in the river and hung them up.” His eyes flicked down towards Merlin’s collarbones. “I couldn’t very well let you freeze while your clothes dried.”

“You—you washed my clothes?”

Of all the things strange about this situation, that stood out. Merlin didn’t think Arthur had ever cleaned anything in his life. 

A faint blush stole over Arthur’s cheeks. “Of course,” he said, glancing away. “Don’t get used to it; now you’re up, you can very well—”

“Thank you.”

The blush deepened. Arthur coughed. “Well. It’s hard to get a good manservant, you know?”

“Careful,” Merlin said, softness stealing into his jibe. “You almost complimented me, there.”

“Won’t happen again.” Arthur finally looked up, a glint in his eye. “You okay?”

“I…” 

Merlin hadn’t forgotten. He could never forget the hollowness which filled him, the space which once housed everything he was. He’d just wanted to ignore it for a moment. Now he looked at the memory, the knowledge of all that happened last night. 

“It’s still gone,” he said.

“What do you want to do?” Arthur said, propping himself up on his elbow, and looking so soft with the lingering remains of that blush, and a smudge on his cheek from where he’d been lying, and those tremendously blue eyes.

“I want to take it back.”

“How?”

“I don’t know.”

Merlin dragged a hand through his hair. He looked out at the clothes hanging by the fire, and he frowned. “That wasn’t water, by the creature,” he said. “On my clothes. It wasn’t water.”

“No.” Arthur shifted into a sitting position, hand resting near his blade. “So what was it?”

Merlin swallowed, thinking on the books he’d read, the books on magic, the books on healing. He thought of so many hours at Gaius’ side, listening to the old man talk about remedies and treatments and strange illnesses.

“I think,” he said. “I think it was bile. It—it ate the horse, and then it took my magic. It consumes, but not everything. Not the plants, not all the animals, and not me. My body, anyway.”

Arthur’s face was white. “That’s disgusting.”

Merlin waved a hand. “We’ve seen worse. If the thing can’t consume everything, that means something is bad for it.”

“Bile,” Arthur said, pulling a face. 

Merlin nodded. “Bile. And plant matter.”

Arthur’s eyebrows raised. His face brightened. “Plant matter. I’d much rather handle the plant matter.”

“Oh, me too.” Merlin creaked to his feet. “I don’t know how we’re going to get the plant matter into the creature, though. It’ll be more powerful than ever with my magic inside it. I don’t know if we can even get close.”

“Merlin.” Arthur put his hands on Merlin’s shoulders, and Merlin grew very aware of the fact that neither of them was wearing a shirt. “You once made Morgana drink a potion made of rotten cabbage. If anyone can do it, you can.”

# ~~~~~~~~~~~~

Merlin felt brittle, and thin, as if the wrong step might snap him in two. He felt weak, like death hovered just behind a veil. And he stood. He stood, with a vial of ground leaves in one hand, looking out at the trail of bile stretching before him.

Arthur stood at his side, strong and present, and there, his hand dangling at his hip, and for a mad moment, Merlin thought of reaching out, just a little, and taking it. Holding it and never letting it go.

He curled his fingers tight, and looked sideways at his King. Arthur stood resplendent in armour, sword ready in his grip, hard determination in his eyes. He looked back, nodded, and they moved, stepping into the trail of freezing bile, and striding onwards. 

The forest settled into a hush around them. The horse stayed behind, untethered, waiting for their return. No birds sang overhead. No insects scuttled through the trees. The dim light of dawn glimmered over them, and Merlin thought of the words which would make fire, create light for them to move by, and he whispered them to no effect.

“It’ll come back,” Arthur said. 

Merlin said nothing, but felt a giddy rush of disbelief that Arthur had even said it, that Arthur knew and didn’t care. Or that he did care, but it didn’t matter. He was here; that’s what was important, and Merlin couldn’t wrap his thoughts around it, that after so many long years the secret he’d held inside, that he’d dreamed and dreaded saying, was in the open.

The bile grew colder. The air froze as they walked. Their footsteps and hushed breathing became the only sound. Not even a breeze rustled the trees, and Merlin clung to the vial with all the brittle, small strength he had left. Human strength, and not much of it.

A light, like the glimmer of a moon, brightened the path. Merlin’s heartbeat raced. He strode on, a dull ferocity settling into the back of his throat, because how dare this thing take what made Merlin who he was? How dare it steal and consume and take, take, take? 

Arthur’s pace increased. A strange energy took over his face, elation marred with panic.

“Merlin,” he said, his voice a low warning. “I think I feel it.”

“Slow down,” Merlin said.

“I—I don’t think I can.”

Merlin swore, whirled, grabbed Arthur by the shoulders and dug his feet in. Arthur kept moving, striding onwards, eyes flicking from the creature back to Merlin. Merlin felt nothing, no pull, no tug towards the thing, but he’d felt it before. His horse had felt it.

Arthur was strong. He was rich with muscle, and Merlin wasn’t. Not anymore. Not without his magic brimming inside him.

Arthur won. He trampled on, and Merlin couldn’t stop him, couldn’t stop any of this. He hauled on Arthur’s arm, and failed. He tried to trip him, and Arthur crawled onwards.

He wasn’t going to stop. Merlin gave up, turned to look at the creature, at the bright, pulsating light of it. Not white. Not quite; a hint of yellow tinged its edges. It moved like a fluid, keeping away from the outstretched branches, away from the bristles and thorns of the bushes.

Merlin squeezed the vial in his hand, and he ran. He ran past Arthur’s marching form, ignoring the cry which followed him. The freezing bile splashed his ankles as he moved, and he grit his teeth against the brightening light, which as he grew closer became more distinguishable. There was indeed a figure inside the light. As undulating and buoyant as the flickering light, but solid. Merlin tugged the cork from the vial and ran for the creature, feeling rather than seeing it turn to face him.  
Feeling, rather than seeing the stretch of an uncanny smile.

“Give. It. Back,” Merlin cried, diving at the thing, letting it envelope him, hearing a distant yell behind him as a searing pain raced over his skin. He gripped the vial, tipped its contents into his fist, and slammed his hand into the creature’s skin.

Again.

Again.

He punched, and tore, cutting holes with his fingernails and pressing essence of leaf into the holes which formed. He yelled nonsense as the pain wrapping around his limbs built, and then Arthur was there, his sword forgotten for the length of a branch in his fist, whacking the thing over and over, and Merlin was laughing and screaming, and the smell—the stench of rotting eggs rolled from it, and if Arthur was here, its control over him was gone, and Merlin had done that, had done it without magic.

Arthur swung, and where the branch hit, now the creature burned away, a scream sounding inside Merlin’s skull, and a flicker of orange showed where its skin melted away. A flicker of something more than light, and Merlin plunged his hand into it, hoping—

Power touched his fingertips. He closed his fist over it, though there was nothing physical to grab, and he pulled. He fell back, bracing with every muscle he had, hauling the power with him. The magic spilled after him like tar, tumbling reluctantly from the hole Merlin had found it in. 

He yelled as the power wrapped around his wrist. As it crawled up towards his elbow, and his blood warmed with every inch Merlin claimed. He reached out with his other hand, finding a root to grab, and holding on with all he was. As soon as his fingers touched wood, the creature seemed to weaken, so Merlin crawled backwards, until his entire back pressed against the tree, and his magic flowed faster, and the light bobbed, growing dimmer and dimmer.

Merlin breathed.

His magic breathed with him. It filled him, moving in time with his heart, and he was, once more. He was the sorcerer who never had to learn a spell. He was the dragonlord, with a language on his tongue he never learned. He was the kingdom’s protector, manservant to its King. 

He was.

He only had to think, and the forest bristled alive. He planted his feet, and the roots moved, snapping up from the soil and curling themselves around the creature. Merlin saw Arthur stagger away, saw those bright blue eyes watch as Merlin stepped forward, as leaves drilled themselves into points and flew at the thing, piercing it from every angle. 

The light dimmed. The roots curled under Merlin’s command, tugging the creature into the soil, into the bushes and the trunks it had rejected.

And all at once, it was gone, leaving only the trail of cool bile which sank into the moss as Merlin watched, and then it was just them. Just him, and Arthur, and the magic which had always hummed inside him was back, where it was supposed to be. 

Arthur swept his hair back. He wore that light, crooked grin.

“Told you,” he said.

And Merlin beamed, snapped his fingers, and a branch whipped down to knock Arthur to the ground.

Arthur tipped his head back and laughed, his joy bouncing around the trees, which seemed to shiver in delighted response, and Merlin laughed as well, brushing his hands over his newly filthy, torn clothes. He walked, feeling like he could do anything, over to Arthur. He offered his hand.

Arthur took it. His palm was warm and slick, and Merlin hummed, said a word, and the bile was gone from them both. The tears fixed themselves, and Merlin enjoyed watching Arthur’s eyebrows shoot skyward.

“Oh,” he said. “Oh, you’ve been doing no work when you clean my chambers.”

Merlin’s grin fell. “I work!”

“Not hard enough, clearly. I’ll need to come up with a whole new list—”

“You know what?” Merlin shoved him. “I work more than you do. I run around after you all day, and on top of that, I work for Gaius, and I have to deal with every last crisis which decides to poke its head around the castle walls!”

Arthur was laughing again. A rich, bellowing laugh which Merlin felt all the way through him. He petered off, his shouts echoing to nothing.

“I work,” he muttered.

“You’re such an idiot,” Arthur said. “Well. Show me.”

“Show—?”

“Magic.”

Arthur’s eyes glittered, and a rush of nerves swelled in Merlin’s gut. He backed up, looking at Arthur’s keen expression. He felt raw and seen, and he felt a flush build on his cheeks.

He said a spell.

A circle of flowers bloomed at their feet, white as snow, and frail as a ladybird’s wing. Arthur’s eyes widened, and Merlin grinned, spreading his hands. 

Lights winked into being around them, a thousand fireflies flitting around their heads. Arthur watched one, something like awe on his face, and Merlin was amazing.  
Magic was amazing. The lights swirled. The flowers bloomed, and the trees twined together. He wanted to tip his head back and call a dragon, but he couldn’t bear the thought of anyone else being here.

Arthur looked back at him.

“Merlin,” he said, gravel in his voice, and something darker in his eyes.

Merlin made his sword dance. He moved a finger and watched as Arthur jumped, feeling the touch on his arm.

“Fuck—come here,” Arthur said, not waiting. He moved instead, shoving past his sword, throwing his arms around Merlin and lifting him from the ground.

“You are incredible.”

Then he kissed him. Merlin’s breath vanished and he squeaked, magic burning his fingertips. Arthur’s lips were softer than he’d always imagined, and dry and warm and kissing him.

Arthur dared draw back; Merlin caught a flicker of doubt in his eye, and—don’t you dare change your mind before I get to enjoy this—Merlin pressed his hand to the back of Arthur’s head and kissed him with reckless abandon.

He’d dreamed of this so many times; reality made the dream pale. Because the awkward clash of their noses and the uncomfortable pressure of one blocked nostril and the sneaking smiles Merlin caught Arthur making in the middle of the kiss were things he’d never imagined.

They were better. They were real, and Merlin didn’t care how long Arthur had known because his secrets no longer pressed on his sternum. He was magic, and he was in love, and he was free.

# ~~~~~~~~~~~

Merlin’s lips still burned when, hours later, they found their way back into the castle. He felt new, remade. He stared back at Arthur when they parted in the corridor, and let himself cherish the slightly wonky smile which brightened Arthur’s face. The smile was for him, had always been for him, if Arthur was speaking the truth. 

Merlin felt he was walking on air, all the way back to his room, where Gaius was waiting, leaning over his workbench, sniffing at one of his concoctions. 

“Ah, Merlin,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Excellent. Taste this.”

“Absolutely not,” Merlin said. “I’m going to bed.”

“It’s a matter of life or death,” Gaius said, holding out the vial.

Merlin pulled a face, traipsed over to the table and dipped a finger into the potion. It felt warm. He heaved a sigh, squeezed his eyes closed, and licked the finger.  
He coughed. He gagged.

It was even worse than he’d expected.

Gaius sat back in his chair and grinned. “Perfect. You can take it to Gwen in the morning. She’s been suffering from terrible cramps.”

“And this will help,” Merlin said.

“Well, it’ll distract her from the cramps,” Gaius said. He stoppered the vial and set it aside, looking at Merlin with that far-too-intense eye. “And your quest?”

Merlin shrugged. “We killed the thing. It was uneventful.”

Then he dashed for his room, taking the stairs in one leap and slamming the door behind him with a flare of magic.

He dove for his bed, buried his face in his pillow, and grinned.


End file.
